At Least She Didn’t Stab Me in the Head with a Fork

When I was younger and stupider, I bought into many White Knight falsehoods. For me, these falsehoods primarily manifested themselves in the form of “respect.” Sure, I wanted to fuck anyone I found attractive, but I thought that the way to accomplish this goal was to defer to the lies society teaches about girls’ inherent sexuality. I had to “respect” those girls’ desire to remain chaste. Now, there is a crumb of truth to this lie, but that crumb is that average chastity crumbles at the foot of an alpha. When that happens, all bets are off and “respect me” morphs into “fuck me good.” In other words, the female libido only screams “respect my desire to remain chaste” when the advancing man gives off signals that he is not worthy of lascivious desire.

As a result, I blindly forfeited claim to more than one luscious honey. One example: Early in my college career, I was a long-haired stone-hearted carnivore who played the part of dirty bleeding-heart hippie quite well. One night, I went to a house party solo. I was fried out of my mind on mescaline and quite single. At this party, I met a gorgeous hippie chick who, like me, wasn’t such a hippie that she eschewed showers and deodorant. She was a model with waist length red hair and a name that screamed sex. My natural aloofness combined with the mescaline fog and I ended up with the digits and possibly a date. The details are fuzzy because, hey, I was on mescaline and can only remember so much about the evening in question. In any case, I soon found myself at her house, on her bed, and wrapped in her arms. In hindsight, she quickly cleared me for landing, but with the obligatory nonsense about how she normally didn’t move so fast. I think an ex-boyfriend who couldn’t compare to me also came up.

So she was giving the signals and throwing out some shit tests. I, being a nice respectful dude, failed miserably and she realized she had to get up early. Soon after, the ex-boyfriend, who apparently wasn’t quite so ex, was back and I was spanking it in the shower. But hey, I was respectful. I was also horny while she was getting pumped proper, not by me. Epic fail.

Life moved on and my free-spirited non-stinky pseudo-hippie charms continued to open doors. Of course, I never walked through most of those doors. Nevertheless, I wasn’t a complete idiot. Somehow, though I knew nothing of the art of seduction, I found myself entangled with a pair of honeys. I usually hit the local happy hours and later night scenes solo and both these girls frequented the same spots. I would amble in, see who I saw first, head her way, and then leave with her. Or possibly with the other one. The situations really demanded decisions and I was either too careful or too intoxicated to overthink the consequences. I just went with whatever I knew was best at those particular moments in time.

Eventually, I ended up in a monogamous LTR with one of the two. I was not a model boyfriend and continued to focus on whatever I wanted at the moment, but she had a toothbrush and other junk in my bathroom. Moreover, if I was with a girl, I was with her. The sex was solid and frequent and life was good. Then she did some shit that caused me to lose all the respect I had for her. Giving up the pussy is not what caused this loss of respect; it was a culmination of things she said plus a post coitus story about her past. I didn’t kick her out of bed, but my mind was screaming, “You did what?!?”

Having said that, I can’t be completely dismissive of her. Though I’m not much for psycho-babble, she was quite vulnerable. Her father died when she was in high school and I, like the dudes before me, was the male substitute for this unfinished relationship. Being, in her later words, a snake in the grass, I exploited this horribly until I just couldn’t take it anymore. It was time for us to forsake the title of “us” and return to individual pronouns.

Of course, I didn’t care enough to actually break up with her. I just stopped calling. I was rarely at home, so there were few pop-in opportunities. A small amount of time passed and I thought I was in the clear. Then, she showed up one night marvelously drunk. I was at home and too nice to order her back behind the wheel of a car. (I still stand by that decision.)

At this point I knew I had to actually dump her, but I couldn’t do it until she was capable of driving. So I took her to my bedroom with the intent of letting her collapse into a pile of intoxicated sleep. If only I had been so lucky. She wasn’t that drunk and she wanted to talk.

She wasn’t stupid and she didn’t beat around the bush. She quickly launched into the “you’re going to break up with me” line of attack. I dodged, I parried, but eventually my defenses were weakened. “Yes, I’m going to dump you.” In my mind, the statement continued, ‘But I’d hoped to do it in the morning.” She made some counter offers, but ultimately accepted the truth.

She didn’t want to just go to sleep, though. She wanted to fuck one last time. I was done with this girl and was not initially interested, but she purred and rubbed and I relented. Not long after I entered her, I started hearing gentle weeping. “Are you crying while I’m fucking you?” “Yes, it’s the last time we’ll be together.” Silly girl. She wasn’t aware of my fondness for the post-breakup booty call.

Somehow I settled her down long enough for the deed. I may be a snake in the grass, but I draw the line at fucking to a soundtrack of gentle weeping. Morning came and she left, never to return. At least, never to return until I got horny and discovered she’d left a favorite book at my apartment. “You’re a snake in the grass.” “May be, but let’s focus on this snake.”

That, despite the unpleasantness of it all, wasn’t even my worst break up. That honor goes to the high school sweetheart. The White Knight in me was forced to dump her when she was trying to give me road head during the early leg of a trip home that, unbeknownst to her, was going to culminate in the dissolution of our relationship. I should’ve just let her blow me. It would’ve been a much more pleasant drive. There was much screaming and gnashing of teeth.

In hindsight, I chuckle at these events. Sure, I was a shithead, but both girls ended up just fine despite the devastating loss of yours truly. Still, I do feel a twinge of remorse. Things could’ve gone much worse. The bad-breaker-upper episode of Seinfeld comes to mind. I didn’t plant seeds of rage and end up getting stabbed in the head with a fork, but I could have. Love is risky enough, there is no need to make it riskier.